


Vena Vitae

by Amanamarthiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Drinking, Brothels, Creature Fic, Creature Harry, Derogatory Language, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Harry is a Little Shit, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Loss of Identity, M/M, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Supportive Draco Malfoy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampires, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 21:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15349221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanamarthiel/pseuds/Amanamarthiel
Summary: After Sirius dies, Harry's will to live quickly slips away.In August, his future is changed forever.With the help of unexpected allies, Harry must learn to navigate the new world he has been thrust into as well as overcome his greatest enemy: himself.





	1. The Weight of Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Waiting for my beta to go through my other story and thought I'd have a play around here in the meantime. Never thought I'd write a creature fic, but here we are.

The Weight of Waiting

April

“We’ve already been through this, Harry.”

“I’ll be turning sixteen in a few months,” Harry reminds him. “How does a few months make a difference?”

“It just does, Harry,” Sirius’s voice is gentle but firm. “I… I can’t allow you to do something you’ll regret.”

The younger man tilts his chin defiantly. “I’m not a child, Sirius.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m not going to change my mind.”

Sirius regards him with a fond smile. “Alright, Harry.” His words are indulgent but ultimately convey his doubt, causing Harry to prickle.

“I’m not going to,” Harry insists. “I _want_ you, Sirius, and I know you want me too.”

Sirius’s attempts to be honourable falter somewhat as his gaze sweeps over Harry’s figure, and Harry spies a glimmer of the desire the other man is so desperately trying to hide. Harry inches closer, reducing the gap between them.

With a sigh the older man takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “When you’re sixteen,” he says staunchly. “We’ll talk about it again when you’re sixteen.”

 

 

 

July 31st, Midnight.

Harry stares at the ceiling of his Privet Drive bedroom, his eyes vacant, barely blinking.                                                                                                                             

“I’m sixteen now, Sirius,” he whispers into the darkness, his voice choked with tears.


	2. With Wretchedness Comes Recklessness

With Wretchedness Comes Recklessness

August

He’s taken to wandering the streets at night. It’s easy to slip out unnoticed now that the bars have been removed from his bedroom window.

He removes a cigarette from the packet in his pocket and slips it between his lips to light it. The pack is Dudley’s and his cousin knows Harry stole them, but the lug isn’t foolish enough to demand them back. Dudley’s too scared to even look at him these days, and for the first time in Harry’s life, this has nothing to do with magic.

_“There’s been no progress with the boy, I see,” Aunt Marge growled at his Uncle. “St Brutus’s, didn’t you say?”_

_“Mmm, yes,” Vernon hummed noncommittally._

_“The little bastard’s full of darkness; you can tell just by looking. Why you continue to keep him here, Vernon, I’ll never know.”_

Harry meanders down the footpath and continues to plot ways to destroy Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who, with a single word and a burst of light managed to rob him of his hope, his love and his future. It’s become an obsession of his, his sole fixation, the only thing to distract him from the fact that he’s well and truly alone now.

_“You’re scaring me Harry,” Hermione whispered, her eyes brimming with tears as she gazed at his bloodied fists._

_“Look mate,” Ron spoke up hesitantly, “we know you’re having a rough time right now, but there’s no need to–”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_Ron’s eyes crinkled in confusion and he reached out a hand in an attempt to be placating. “Oi, Harry…”_

_“Fuck OFF, Ron!” Harry snarled, slapping the redhead’s hand away. “Both of you. Just piss off and leave me the fuck alone.”_

As he wanders through the park, the darkness seems to curl around him, thick and oppressive and _knowing_.

“If I run into any dementors, I’m fucked,” Harry mutters to himself as he flicks the butt of his cigarette into a rubbish bin. “Good,” he adds scornfully a moment later.

_Don’t be so stupid._

_Why not?_

He was sick of his insomnia, he was sick of feeling, he was sick of fighting.

_At least I’d get some damn rest._

But then again, if that were to happen, Harry wouldn’t be able to give Bellatrix her comeuppance, would he? Making the bitch pay was his first priority; his only priority.

_“There’s other things we need to consider, Harry. You and your friends have caused Voldemort some serious damage, but he won’t lie low forever.”_

_Harry stared levelly at Remus. “I don’t care.”_

_“We can’t be reckless–”_

_“You misunderstand me, Remus,” Harry interrupted, shaking his head regretfully. “I don’t want to hear about it anymore. It’s someone else’s problem now.”_

_“But the prophecy–”_

_“You’re not listening. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.”_

Braveness is overrated; that’s what Harry has come to realise. From what he’s seen, all braveness has ever done is gotten the people he cares about killed. His father. His mother. Cedric. Sirius. These were people who had died _because_ of him.  

Harry’s bravery at the Department of Mysteries had been ultimately reckless and it had caused Sirius his life. Harry would be paying for his mistake until the end of his days.

Deep down he knows that he cannot truly turn away from everything, cannot truly let someone else fight Voldemort in his stead. But at the same time, Harry is empty. He has nothing left to give.

A twig snaps behind him. He’s being followed.

Harry increases his pace, though still maintains a walk as he emerges from the park and prepares to turn down a side-street. He dares not look over his shoulder; instead he’ll stop around the corner and waylay whoever’s behind him. He grips his wand, ready and waiting, underage regulations be damned.

They’re coming closer; he can hear their footsteps steadily approaching, their shoes tapping against the footpath as they step off the bitumen.

He’s just about to shoot a stunning spell at his pursuer when someone hits him from behind.

 

 

 

When Harry regains consciousness, he finds himself in a dank box of a room. There are fingers in his mouth and a strange fluid on his tongue… warm, metallic, thick. It’s blood. And then, the fingers are wrenched away and his mouth is clamped shut.

“Swallow,” orders a gravelly voice as someone pinches his nostrils closed and tightens their grip painfully.

He can’t breathe and he can’t move, but Harry knows that whatever happens, he _must_ not swallow.

However, despite his stubbornness he ends up panicking and doing so anyway, and almost immediately he is released, choking and spluttering but allowed to drink in oxygen once more.

And then comes pain; he screams as needles pierce into his neck. No, not needles – something, _someone_ is biting him, _draining_ him. It’s dizzying and Harry still can’t see anyone, not in this dim light, not even the person doing this to him.

The world is darkening; his head is aching… it’s the end.

He hears a laugh and a voice gloats, “The perfect metaphorical middle-finger to that Dark Lord of yours, don’t you think?” The voice sounds far away to his fuzzy ears.

 _Who are they talking to?_ Harry wonders faintly through the pain, struggling, straining to turn and see.

He passes out before he can hear the response.


	3. Bloodlust, Disgust, Mistrust

Even before he opens his eyes Harry knows he’s still in the same room. Upon waking his nostrils are hit with the stench of a surplus of bodily fluids – and not all of them are his own. The smells were there last night, but this morning they’re all too intense and overwhelming, seeming to surrounding him at all angles. He squints against the light, recoiling at the vibrancy of the world around him. The sensations are too much; the colours _hurt_.

Harry is quite certain as to what has been done to him but he pushes the thoughts – and the rising panic – away for now.  He’s dizzy and he’s achy and he stinks of sweat and filth… but ultimately, he is alone. He needs to leave before they – whoever _they_ are – return. He needs to get back to Privet Drive.

With relief he finds that he’s still clothed and none of his bones seem to be broken. And, strangely enough, his wand is in his pocket.

Harry raises his head, fighting to keep his eyes open against the light emanating into the room and finds, to his surprise, that the doors aren’t sealed shut; he can see outside from where he is curled on the ground. It’s this discovery which makes him certain that whoever brought him here has left for good. His captors had one mission it seems, and it’s been taken care of, if his suspicions are correct.

He gets to his feet and his motions are smooth despite his lingering exhaustion. He moves forward slowly, his right hand pressed against the steel wall, and tries to silence his thoughts regarding the pallor of his skin.

Stepping into the outside world Harry glances behind him, realising he’s just emerged from a shipping container. It sits in the middle of an abandoned lot filled with uncut grass which reaches his thighs. There is no path leading away from the container, just a small stomped-down area around its entrance. From this, Harry suspects that his captors Disapparated after finishing their business, rather than walking away.

It’s early – a glance at his watch reveals the time to be 6:36 in the morning – and Harry’s exposed skin is already beginning to prickle. He knows enough to know that he’s hardly going to burst into flames, but if he doesn’t get inside soon, he’s going to suffer.

As he reaches the kerb of the lot he wonders whether returning to Privet Drive is the best idea after all. There’s nothing there which will help him try and work out this situation of his – no books, no one to seek advice from.

 _You’ve got no one to talk to regardless_ , Harry reminds himself coldly, _you made sure of that, remember?_

_Dumbledore…_

_No. Fuck Dumbledore. He’s already caused you enough grief by leaving you in the dark and treating you like a pawn all this time._

Harry considers going to Diagon Alley so that he can look for books in Flourish and Blotts. But can he really trust himself around people at this stage? Will he be able to maintain control when he is so unused to his overactive senses?

A solution of sorts comes to Harry’s mind, but it’s one which fills him with displeasure and loathing.

“Kreacher!”

With a pop the house elf appears before him, a grimace upon his wrinkled face.

“Harry Potter has summoned Kreacher?” the elf asks sourly as he fiddles with the edge his grimy pillowcase.

“Not happily, but yes,” Harry returns. “Look at me Kreacher.”

“Kreacher is looking.”

“I’ve changed, haven’t I?” he asks, knowing the answer even as he speaks, “I’m a… vampire… aren’t I?”

“The half-blood master has creature in him now, yes,” Kreacher acknowledges, and his distaste is evident. “Bad enough with his Mudblood ancestry, and now? Tainting my poor, poor mistress’s–”

“Shut up, Kreacher.”

The house elf’s mouth snaps shut and he glares up at Harry.

“I need to go to Diagon Alley,” says Harry, “but before I do that, I’ll need to… I’ll need _blood_ , won’t I? It won’t be safe if I don’t….” he pauses, closing his eyes in self-loathing. “I need to feed, don’t I?”

Kreacher doesn’t reply.

Harry sighs in resignation. “Fine, fine – you can speak! Look, could you just get me some blood from...” _from a what?_ “Uh, I dunno, is there, like, a vampire _butcher_ or something that you can pop into?”

“Kreacher will take care of it,” the elf grunts before disappearing.

It only takes five minutes for the house elf to return but even so, Harry is impatient. His skin feels agitated and he’s hungry for blood; in fact, he’s _craving_.

Kreacher thrusts a brown paper bag at him then bows before popping away once more.

Harry opens the bag and finds – to his surprise – that it contains a plastic cup filled with blood, complete with lid and straw.

“Maybe he got it from Vampire Starbucks,” he jokes weakly to himself as he pulls out the cup.

His fingers touch against the plastic and he lets out a breath of amazement when he realises that the blood in the cup is _warm_. He can smell the blood now, can practically taste it, and it is divine.

It is at this moment that Harry becomes aware of his _fangs_ : elongated, sharp, ready. But there’s no use for them now, no flesh for them to pierce, no hide to puncture. He’s mildly disturbed when he realises that he’s somewhat disappointed by this.

Harry sticks the straw into his mouth and slurps, staring down at the cup in fascination as the crimson fluid travels up the plastic cylinder. The blood hits his tongue and it is _everything_ ; at the taste, his eyes roll back in his head and he moans at its delicious perfection.

When the straw can suck up no more he pries open the lid and licks out every last drop before running his tongue over his lips and around his mouth just to make sure nothing is left behind.

Yes; he feels much better now: sated and content though somewhat self-conscious, even though he’s alone. The idea that consuming blood – and perhaps hunting and killing for it – is to be commonplace now is something which disturbs him greatly.

He’s also still rather anxious but then again, who wouldn’t be after being kidnapped, turned into a vampire and then left to cope with it?

With a resigned sigh, Harry pulls out his wand and summons the Knight Bus.

Hopefully he can get through the day without accidentally killing anyone.

 

 

 

Harry realises his mistake the moment he steps into Diagon Alley.

It is too much; the sights, the smells, the sounds. He remembers just how excited and marvellous the Alley was when he first saw it at the age of eleven. It seems gaudy and grotesque now, headache-inducing and harsh.

Harry sidesteps into the shadows and squeezes his eyes closed, feeling unsteady on his feet.

This was a bad idea; he realises that now. He isn’t ready for this, and it’s not just the fact that the surrounds are too much for him, it’s the fact that he’s _Harry Potter_ , newly dubbed Chosen One and already a public spectacle.

Why the fuck had he been stupid enough to come _here_ in this state?

 _And soon you’ll be going back to Hogwarts_ , he reminded himself. _September isn’t far away. What will you do then? How will you not draw attention to yourself? How will you cope?_

He spies someone heading in his direction: someone with a head of perfectly arranged silver blonde hair. And, yes – it’s him. Harry groans and prepares to back away.

Unfortunately, the movement seems to attract Malfoy’s attention. The other boy’s eyes flick to him and then widen. In contrast, Harry’s narrow to slits and he whirls around, forcing himself to move.

And then, the blonde cuts in front of him and blocks his way, standing before Harry with pink cheeks and shrewd slate eyes. The sight freezes Harry in his tracks.

To his surprise, the words which come out of Malfoy’s mouth have nothing to do with Harry’s responsibility for his father’s arrest.

“Salazar’s balls, Potter; I was right. Look, I don’t know how you got into this mess but I’m taking you back to the Leaky and you’re going to tell me in a private room.”

“What the fuck are you–”

The Slytherin leans closer and hisses, “You’ve been _turned_ , Potter; don’t even deny it. You are getting out of here _now_ , do you understand, and I – heaven forbid – am coming with you.”


End file.
